White Knight
by Evil Lil' Katbird
Summary: Companion and sequel to Long Live (read it first). Jim Hammond tries to fix an insane world by himself. [WIP]


White Knight  
  
This is the second half, or more appropriately, the companion to 'Long Live'. It follows Jim Hammond through the entire event, and will pick up where 'Long Live' left off, tieing up loose ends along the way. It's far too long in coming, and hopefully goes much smoother than its' partner.  
  
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Los Angelinos are finicy, flighty, and have about as much loyalty as a great white shark. They'd turn on you in a minute if you weren't careful, and Jim Hammond had began to see why the greater superhero population stayed back East. It hadn't been so bad when he'd been with the Avengers - the more respected group had given him credibility. Something he swore he'd never need. Afterall, he'd fought in the war, been there on the front with the Allies, slept in trenches and filth and been through things no man (or machine) ever should have, all to protect these people's parents and grandparents. But somehow, now that they weren't there to stand up for him, no one seemed to care they he'd fought then, and still fought for them every day. To them, he was some ungodly freak that did more harm than good. And in an area where fire is a mortal enemy, he supposed a little of that fear was deserved, but he didn't deserve the horrible stares he got when he'd land. The names and slurs and thrown objects. And since he did not wear a mask, his identity was public. There was no relief from it all.  
  
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'Well,' he thought with a slight twitch of his lip, 'maybe one...'  
  
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The parking lot of the little burger joint was illuminated breifly by the glow of his flames before falling back into darkness once again. A man and his young daughter were exiting just at that moment, the man holding the door open as Jim went through. The android gave him a smile in thanks, even as the man himself hugged his daughter close, then bolted for his car.  
  
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A loud, slightly nasal voice called out to the quickly retreating man, "Damn technophobe! Get thee Amish!"  
  
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Jim chuckled and went over to the source of the outburst. It had come from a little corner table where four people sat bunched together in a strange and almost uncomfortable looking lump. A girl, barely out of college, lay across the laps of a middle-aged man and a slightly older woman, while a chubby but very tall teen had the girl's wrist in his hand, restraining it. Jim gave the teen a curious look. He quickly released the girl's hand, but added, "She was giving that guy a pretty nasty hand signal..."  
  
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The girl, obviously the source of the outburst, was quick to defend herself, "It wasn't bad! It was just..."  
  
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"Enough to get us kicked out," the middle-aged man added.  
  
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The girl rolled her eyes, turning to the woman, "Ruth, hit him."  
  
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Ruth complied with a swift swat to the back of the man's head. He yelped and scooted away as much as he could, dropping the young girl's head onto the hard plastic of the seat. She skeeked and sat up, clawing playfully at the man's face.  
  
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Jim, now sitting, put one hand under his chin and lay his head down on the table, watching with an amused expression. He grinned, "This is better than a movie." He was quickly hit in the face with four seperate sugar packets. "Ow!" He sat back up, "I just got off work and I'm stoned with Sweet'n'Low? What kind of friends are you?"  
  
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"Good ones," the girl, Linda, winked at him and slid him a soda that had somehow escaped being tipped over throughout the entire incident. "'Sides, I would not call what you do 'work'. You make your own hours, somedays you're not even on call..."  
  
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Jim pretended to look offended, "Well, if that's the way you're gonna be, I won't come when you're askin' for help!" He waited a second, then sipped his soda without looking at her. "Maybe if you're in the shower..."  
  
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Four more sugar packets found their mark.  
  
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For Jim, this was heaven. He'd met each of them there, at the resteraunt. At first, he'd gotten into a conversation with Ben, a Viet Nam draftee who had never actually seen service, being called much too late to serve. When Jim had told him it was a godsend that he hadn't been taken into active duty, Ben clapped him on the back and gave him a genuine smile. Ruth was a friend of Ben's, being a few years older and a senior when he was a sophomore in highschool. They had dated breifly, and when he was called, Ruth had organized an entire plan to get him to Canada. Thankfully, Ben never went, and the two had remained very close. Linda was Ruth's neice, orignally visiting for the summer from Scottsdale, Arizona. But she'd met Andrew, and though they weren't dating, considered him enough of a reason to stay in California a little longer. So far, it was a year and counting. It wasn't so much their backstories that interested Jim. Of course, he had always liked human interaction, and hearing of others' was just as interesting to him as first-hand experience. But no, not a one of them even gave him a second glance when he'd fly out of the sky. Not one snide remark or horrified look when he told them his story. They simply nodded, commented, asked him questions like he was talking about the weather outside. They treated him just like family. He had no ties to any of them whatsoever, but they happily pulled him into their little circle. Even when they were caught up in his troubles.  
  
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It happened every so often. Some patron who'd had a bit too much to drink, or maybe had just been given a bad temperment from birth, found his way over to their table. Jim, in his bright red costume, didn't exactly blend in. For Jim, it was always a slap back to reality, and no matter how good a mood he was in before, he'd never quite knock that tie away. It would be there for the rest of the night. That night was one of those. A skinhead with a swastika firmly tattooed behind his right ear walked up to the table and planted both hands in front of the android, lowering his head a bit to stare the other down. It didn't take a genius to figure out the man had been drinking. His breath stank of alcohol. But Jim doubted that the man's actions were simply because of intoxication. Ever since the first 'modern' android had asked for rights (Jim was pretty sure his brother, Vision, could be called on that one), the White Supremecist groups had decided that machines, like the lesser races, did not deserve to exist. He'd only met one before, but the other hadn't been as... colourful... as this one. Jim resisted the urge to pull the man's nosering clean out. As he was debating the ups and downs of yanking out an ear or a neck peircing, he suddenly found himself face to face with the skinhead. The youth had a firm grip on Jim's metal collar, which he did not hesitate in yanking him into a standing position with. Even though he was an android, and his brain transmitted thoughts and processes at a much faster rate than any human, his mind simply did not expect what happened next.  
  
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In one clean motion, quicker than Jim could have reacted, the man took out a metal baton and smashed him across the face. It didn't send him down, but his neck gave a resounding crack as a few vertibrae popped out of their sockets. It probably looked quite comical to the other people seated there, and a few gave quiet snickers and chuckles. Jim, however, wasn't laughing. That had hurt. He felt a little bit of blood floating close to the skin near his cheekbone and realized that it had been cracked. He didn't want this tonight. He didn't know why. He never wanted it when it happened, but tonight he really did not need it... As soon as the initial sting had dulled away from his neck and cheek, he opened his eyes. Andrew had stood up and grabbed the skinhead from behind. He was quickly elbowed in the ribs and released. The baton was raised again, ready to go down on Andrew. Jim reached up and took the tip of it between a few fingers. In an instant it had rocketed up a few hundred degrees. It was not a very pleasant sound that came out of the man's throat, and the baton dropped on the floor. Weaponless and going through a bit of shock, he backed off, away from the group.  
  
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The others in the group had all crawled out of the tight booth by then and were standing around Jim, seeming torn between helping him and chasing the idiot on the floor the rest of the way to the door. Ruth fussed over his swollen face like a mother hen, Ben stood between the android and skinhead, arms firmly folded over his chest. The other two had gone off to find some ice. At any other time, this would have made even Jim laugh. Even though he'd been attacked for no real reason (an oddly common occurance there), it was sure it would have been funny. But suddenly, a feeling of dread caught his stomach... And his ears focused on the TV that was broadcasting at just above mute.  
  
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"War declared on Atlantis."  
  
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He froze. 'That couldn't be right. Namor had no reason to attack... He didn't do anything. He had been attacked?' Jim's mind was taking in the information, but not understanding it. Machines seemed to have a problem digesting facts that didn't add up. Very suddenly, something hard and full of force ran headlong into him. Damnit. Tonight was not his night. Unfortunetly, his body didn't seem connected to his mind at that moment. It had very quickly taken the facts that were being dolled out and converted them to a very common reaction for Jim - heat. He watched as his hands came up in front of him, met, and then seperated, never touching his assilant. But the man screamed none-the-less. The metal that had so graciously adorned his skin was begining to heat up and melt. Then there was the feeling that Jim had been slapped with a P-51 as his mind and body met somewhere in the middle of it all. He immedietly stopped, skittering backwards until he hit the bottom of a table. He didn't mean to do that. He really didn't want to do that. But the man continued screaming, writhing on the ground in pain. Above them, the owner looked down at the skinhead with a laconic expression, then walked off to check on some eggs that were cooking. Andrew and Linda ran back from the kitchen, grabing ice with knuckles that had turned white.  
  
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"What happened?!" Linda demanded, looking at Jim's almost terrified face. She'd never seen him so disturbed. Usually he'd play off something like that, keeping it all internal, but this time...  
  
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"I didn't mean to do that," Jim said in a pefectly measured, very mechanical voice. "I didn't mean to do that," he repeated, standing and reaching a hand out to the man on the floor, but not making any other motion towards him.  
  
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"Do what?" Ben asked increduously, "He attacked you. Why feel sorry?"  
  
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"I--" He looked at them all, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he felt. It felt wrong and far too familiar. His outstretched hand seemed to press up against an invisible barrier between he and the group, if only for a second, before flame danced around his hair and shoulders. "I have to go."  
  
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And he was gone, out the door and into the sky.  
  
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Author's Note: Seems strange, doesn't it? Jim acting like that? It'll be explained a little more next chapter, for those of you who aren't quite familiar with Jim's issues. =D 


End file.
